


when we go back to the sea

by skeleton_twins



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Flashbacks, Introspection, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-09
Updated: 2017-06-09
Packaged: 2018-11-12 05:58:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11155686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skeleton_twins/pseuds/skeleton_twins
Summary: Oswald often returns to the sea, a poor substitute for the man he longs for, the touch he’s yearning for, and the heady gaze of crystal blue ‒ Oswald swears that Poseidon, himself, filled a glass from the ocean and poured it into James Gordon’s eyes ‒ Oswald wishes he could meet once more.





	when we go back to the sea

**Author's Note:**

> Many kudos to thekeyholder for not only betaing this fic but also encouraging me to not abandon it!!!!!!

When Oswald sees James Gordon, he thinks of water.

 

He thinks about the soft pitter-patter of rain landing against the concrete in an alleyway. About tumultuous waves crashing together on that day at the pier, ready to swallow Oswald alive. Or the stillness of them that night when they killed Galavan. The waters of Gotham were calm when they murdered a man on the shore, as if the currents knew that removing Galavan was justice, that it was restoring a balance to the world.

 

Oswald often returns to the sea, a poor substitute for the man he longs for, the touch he’s yearning for, and the heady gaze of crystal blue ‒ Oswald swears that Poseidon, himself, filled a glass from the ocean and poured it into James Gordon’s eyes ‒ Oswald wishes he could meet once more.

 

Oswald loved the sea as a child; memories of trips to the beach with his mother are fond ones, tiny barefeet trailing after the soaked and sand-coated hem of his mother’s lengthy dress. It comes to no surprise that the man he loves reminds him of the ocean.

 

The sea is a part of him, its salt water running through his veins.

 

_There was a gentle cool breeze hitting his face, his body was lying atop something soft, fingertips sinking into a grainy warmth. The last thing he remembers is standing on the dock with a man who he fooled himself into thinking he had loved. It had been different, same situation but vastly different outcomes. James Gordon had led him to a pier once too, only Jim had spared him, pushed him into the dark waters._

 

_He listened to his surroundings, could hear lapping waves, a seagull in the distance. Once again, the sea had forgiven his misdeeds, had given him another chance, but there was a burning pain in his chest._

 

_“Oswald…”_

 

_Oswald tried to open his eyes, but could see nothing past the sun’s blinding light. His eyes were heavy, a drowsiness curled around him, beckoning him towards a permanent sleep._

 

_“Stay awake. We’re going to get you to a hospital.”_

 

_He opened his eyes once more and despite the blurriness in his line of vision, he could make out a shape, a familiar outline, one he could trace from memory alone._

 

_There, above him, stood James Gordon as if he was a dream, as if Jim belonged to the sea as well, and came from the watery surface below, waiting to be Oswald’s savior once more. He wanted to reach out and touch him, wanted to speak, to ask him whether he was real, but no words came out._

 

_“Hold on.” Jim told him._

 

_“J-Jim…You’re here.”_

 

_The man before him tilted his head, as if he wasn’t expecting Oswald’s words.The new angle caused the sun to shine directly on Jim’s face, making his hair appear golden, and those piercing blue eyes met his once more._

 

_“I’m here,” Jim assured him, a gentleness that was never there before during their previous conversations._

 

_Jim was the last thing he saw before the war between consciousness and unconsciousness broke, and his vision turned dark._

 

After the shooting, after Oswald wakes, alone, in a hospital, Jim has vanished. No trace of him anywhere. For a second, it all feels like a dream, a wishful hallucination that Oswald’s subconscious has created. Oswald closes his eyes and he’s back on the shore, with a firm pressure on his chest from Jim’s hands pushing down, trying to stop the bleeding. Almost a frantic energy, but it’s gone when Jim looks at Oswald. Oswald’s dying, but he feels safe, locked in Jim’s gaze.

 

When he reopens his eyes, the memory of Jim’s touch is gone, but the ache in his chest is still ever present. The sun is shining through the blinds of the window, its rays reaching across the hospital bed. Oswald raises his hand, lets the light fill the cracks between his fingers.

 

Jim doesn’t visit, doesn’t linger in hospital rooms where Oswald’s recovering. Before the shooting, Oswald rarely saw the detective. An unwelcome distance had begun growing between the two. Before, there were invisible threads, thin as spider webs, connecting the two. Their lives are interwoven, Oswald believes it, although lately it feels as if the thread has begun to unravel.

 

So he returns, returns to the spot where Jim had found him, washed up along the shore. The sand gives way, sinking under the weight of Oswald’s shoes with each step he takes. He stands right before the ocean, staring out into vast openness, as far back as the the blurring horizon, seeking for memories and reminders. Standing next to the sea allows Oswald to find the threads, to trace them with his fingertips. This is the only way Oswald feels close to Jim again.

 

The water beckons, calls to him, and before Oswald knows it, he’s slipping off his shoes. His jacket follows, hitting the sand with a soft thump and into the sea he goes. First the water hits his toes, but he keeps going until the water is wrapping around his waist, right below the new bullet hole in his chest.

 

Oswald stops until his chest is fully submerged in the water, until he’s submerged not only in the sea, but deep in his memories of Jim. Oswald sighs, letting his eyes fall shut as he breathes in the ocean air.

 

The water adamantly pushes against him, like a small child tugging at their parent’s hand. Temptation comes in waves; there’s whispers, teases, that Oswald could hear calling from below the surface. The sea is Oswald’s personal siren, coaxing him to forget the burdens he left on the coast, to remain, to let the currents wash him away.

 

The sea cleanses him, strips away his past deeds, all his mistakes. Every time he’s immersed in these waters, he resurfaces baptized.

 

Shame wells up inside his chest, comes in the shape of a bullet when Oswald thinks of his days before the shooting. Edward Nygma told him once that for some men, love is a source of strength, but for men like them, it will always be their most crippling weakness.

 

Oswald lost himself to a fanciful delusion when he thought he had loved Edward. His one-sided affections had incapacitated him. It was almost as if Oswald had took a sharp knife on himself and began slicing, slowly carving away the person he was until his reflection was completely unrecognizable in mirrors.

 

Jim Gordon has never been Oswald’s Achilles’ heel.

 

Jim Gordon makes him feel alive, enables him to draw air into his lungs. He made sacrifices for the man, none that he regrets ‒ giving up his freedom for Jim was a decision he’d make again.

 

The taste of salt water kisses him, briefly hitting his lips as Oswald sinks below the surface. He’s weightless as he stretches his arms out. Feelings of rejuvenation spread through him as if the water was the medicine he needs to erase the infection that lingers in his bloodstream, left from Edward Nygma.

 

However tempting, Oswald ignores the urge to float away, to let the waters carry him away.

 

He breaks the surface instead, gulping deep breaths, his tongue tastes of salt, now mixed with the ocean air. He begins to turn around, facing the sand, a hand running through his hair, but stills in his movement when he sees Jim Gordon standing on the shore with hands on his hips, watching him with a curious air.

 

Oswald blinks, afraid that it’s merely an illusion, but the image of the detective never fades nor flickers, remains strong. Oswald doesn’t know how long Jim has been there. Heat floods to his face when he thinks of Jim witnessing such a private moment.

 

Oswald begins to climb out of the water, white shirt clinging to his skin, and misses the way Jim’s eyes follow a droplet running down his neck or his gaze falling to the shirt plastered against Oswald’s chest.

 

“Jim…” Oswald breathes, chest rising and falling quicker once he joins Jim on the sand.

 

Jim remains silent, doesn’t speak, merely sighs and turns, starts climbing up the hill where his dark vehicle is parked, but not before looking back to see if Oswald is following.

 

At first, Oswald doesn’t move, but as soon as he catches Jim’s expecting gaze, a quizzical expression in it as if asking, ‘well, aren’t you coming?’, he jolts, swooping down to collect his jacket in one hand and his shoes in the other. He chases after Jim Gordon, not for the first time and it’s certainly not going to be the last time either. Sand coats the bottom of his feet, tickles his ankles as he shuffles up the hill. He’s moving a bit slower than Jim had, slower since the incident at the docks.

 

Jim’s waiting, standing beside the driver’s door by the time Oswald reaches him. He wants this memory to last, to forever be imprinted in his mind, the image of Jim waiting for him. Something that Oswald has always craved.

 

There had been another time, a small instance of Jim waiting for Oswald a long time ago, that came to his mind as Oswald stares at Jim from across the roof of the car.

 

_The ambulance doors opened, revealing a disgruntled James Gordon. The ride over to Falcone’s safe house had been a long and poorly driven one. Oswald’s wrists ached from the handcuffs that Jim had slapped on. He was annoyed to say the least at Jim’s insistence of sparing Falcone._

 

_It stung when Jim had backed Falcone instead of Oswald. That Falcone had been the least worst option for Jim. Oswald had been curious where he stood on the list, if in Jim’s mind, he was the inferior choice compared to his opponents to rule the streets of Gotham. Or if maybe Jim never even considered him tossing his hat into the game in the first place._

 

_As soon as the doors opened, Butch had clambered on out. Oswald, however, didn’t move an inch, making Jim even more impatient at Oswald’s resistance.That hadn’t been Oswald’s intention, at least not consciously ‒ he simply was figuring out the best way to exit the vehicle that wouldn’t cause the most pain for his leg._

 

_“Get out of the ambulance.”_

 

_Oswald huffed, embarrassment causing heat to rush to his face as he shuffled forward, swallowing as he noticed the huge gap between the back of the ambulance to the floor of the warehouse. This was going to hurt. Oswald was already wincing at mere thought of his feet hitting the concrete and the pain that would shortly follow._

 

_“Here.” Jim held out his hand for Oswald to take._

 

_Oswald pauses at the outstretched hand, the gesture taking him completely by surprise. He stared at Jim’s palm, dumbly, as if he’d never seen a hand before. The skin looked coarse near the fingertips, calluses from years of use._

 

_He glanced upward. Jim was waiting, seemingly full of patience now, with his hand out for Oswald._

 

_In that moment, Oswald forgot Jim’s earlier words, any insecurities were gone. It was then that Oswald realized how gone he was, that his affections for Jim weren’t leaving and that nothing Jim could ever do or say would chase them away._

 

_That Oswald would always be in love with Jim._

 

_Jim didn’t have to wait long before Oswald gripped his hand tight. Hands not rough as they appeared, merely warm._

 

“Oswald.” Jim’s voice broke his reverie.

 

Oswald blinks, the scene shifts, the memory of Jim’s hand reaching for him disappears and he’s back on the beach. He feels warm, despite the cool wind blowing in his direction, reminding him of his soaked clothes. Maybe it was the memory of Jim’s touch still lingering or perhaps the heat from embarrassment after realizing he’s just been staring at Jim for the last few minutes.

 

“Get in the car, Oswald.”

 

A slow smile creeps over Oswald’s face at Jim’s bluntness. Jim’s never changed, something Oswald takes great pleasure in. Oswald, himself, has underwent many transformations in his life. Jim is a straight arrow, forever launching forward, never stopping or switching paths. Jim is constant, steady, a stability that Oswald’s desperate for.

 

Since Oswald awoke on the shore, he’s been lost, directionless. All his ambitions have run dry since the shooting. He’s afraid that he’s just going to float away, as if he’s some balloon on the water, slowly rising higher and higher, with its string dragging along, causing ripples on the smooth surface.

 

The feeling fades during the drive. Oswald feels anchored being alone with Jim. He’s always had. Oswald could always find comfort in Jim’s presence. He wonders if that’s what love feels like, to feel safe in each other company.

 

It’s a silent drive, but Oswald doesn’t mind too much. He glances occasionally at the driver, knowing that Jim is fully aware of his gaze by Jim shifting in his seat under his scrutiny. Jim’s thumb twitches against the steering wheel every time Oswald looks over. For the first time in weeks, Oswald doesn’t feel like he’s drowning. He’s unsure about where Jim is taking them, but he leaves the question unasked, not really seeking an answer.

 

Oswald looks out the window at the blurring images of the city passing by. For a second, it feels like Jim’s foot will remain on the gas pedal, never stopping until they reach outside Gotham’s city limits. Oswald doesn’t believe he would object to leaving with Jim, but he knows deep down it’s something Oswald and Jim are both incapable of: abandoning Gotham.

 

The rumbling of the engine stops, the sudden drop into complete silence breaks Oswald’s trance and he discovers Jim’s hands are on his own lap, car keys gripped tight in a fist, waiting again. The cold has set in now, his soaked clothes leave him shivering, their chill seeps through the layers and sinks below his skin, chilling him quick to the bone.

 

He doesn’t move, though, despite the discomfort. Neither does Jim.

 

It’s not until Oswald violently shivers again before Jim’s prompted to action. He slips out of the vehicle, Oswald watching through the windshield as Jim circles the car until he’s standing right outside the passenger door, holding it open for the gangster.

 

If Oswald wasn’t freezing, he would blush at the romantic undertones of the gesture.

 

Jim keeps a firm grip on him, fingers curling around Oswald’s biceps, as if Oswald is going to disappear, as if he would shake Jim’s touch away. Oswald allows himself to be dragged up a set of stairs. No words spoken between them until they enter the apartment, and Jim pulls a chair from the kitchen in the middle of the living area, metal scraping along the wooden floor, leaving a ringing in his ears.

 

“Take a seat.”

 

Oswald does.

 

As soon as Oswald move to sit, Jim’s hands are on his shoulders, guiding him into the seat. Jim occupies Oswald’s space, standing close enough that it seizes Oswald’s breath. His touch was a gentle pressure atop of Oswald’s shoulders. Forcing back a shiver, Oswald hasn’t realized that he’s been starving for this. For someone to touch him without bruises being left as souvenirs afterwards.

 

Jim’s hands slide downward easily since Oswald’s shirt is still wet. Heat spreads through his chest, a burning, and maybe it’s from his wound, but Oswald thinks it has something more to do with Jim’s hands being on him. His fingers resting on the first button of Oswald’s shirt.

 

“Is this alright?” Jim’s gaze is one that lingers as he stares intently at Oswald, something unidentified in his expression.

 

Oswald nods, giving approval even though he doesn’t understand what Jim’s asking, what Jim plans to do. He’s a bit shaken, his mind hazy from Jim’s proximity. It should worry Oswald, that he passed complete control over to Jim, but he doesn’t think this will end with another bullet wound to his gut.  

 

His fingers are quick, undoing the buttons yet it feels like an eternity during the pauses in between. Jim doesn’t stop until he reaches the end of Oswald’s shirt, until each button is undone.

 

Oswald’s pale chest is on display as Jim pushes the shirt off his shoulders, and feelings of self-consciousness should be present, but they never arrive. Jim’s focus isn’t on the shaky rise and fall of Oswald’s chest, doesn’t notice any blemishes or flaws of his body; instead his fingertips lie on the corners of the now damp white dressing that covers Oswald’s mistake of trusting the wrong person.

 

“Don’t you think it’s a little too early in your recovery to go swimming?”

 

Jim doesn’t look at him as he undoes the bandage, and Oswald doesn’t miss the unmistakeable twitch in Jim’s jaw when the covering slips away, revealing the frayed edges from where Nygma’s bullet tore through his skin.

 

“How did you know where to find me? How did you know I’d be there?” Oswald tilts his head back to look up at Jim, interest piqued at hearing Jim’s answer. Staring at Jim’s lips moving, shaping around the words falling from his mouth.

 

“I just knew.”

 

His words bring another memory to surface, and Oswald knows that Jim’s recalling the instance too.

 

_Oswald heard the footsteps echoing down the pier, tension forming at the stranger appearing so unexpectedly, at being caught off guard, but it drained from him when he heard Jim’s voice._

 

_“What are you doing out here, Cobblepot? Not thinking about jumping in, are you? I thought you would have had enough of this place.”_

 

_Oswald tries not to smile. Jim seems to be in a cheery mood, something rare for the detective. It’s not often Oswald gets to see this teasing side of him. Oswald couldn’t do a thing about the amusement lingering in his tone when he responded. “Perfect timing, detective, had I been planning on jumping in, that is, you could’ve swooped in and rescued me.”_

 

_Jim stepped closer to where Oswald was standing. There was still space between the two men. Eyes staring straight ahead, across the water._

 

_“So why are you here?”_

 

_“According to you, waiting to be rescued. You must think of me as some damsel, detective.”_

 

_There was movement at the corner of his lips, a  twitch, looking almost as if he was fighting off a smile._

 

_“I’m afraid your heroics will not be needed today.”_

 

_“Well, it’s still early,” Jim said, turning toward Oswald. There was now a tiny smile on his face._

 

_A comfortable silence settled between them, Oswald knew he hadn’t answered Jim’s question. The answer he was going to give is the closest to the truth as he could give, without revealing too much of it. He couldn’t explain that he liked to come here and reminisce about Jim sparing his life. Here was their starting point, even though they had met previously. This was their beginning, as if sparing Oswald created ripples in the water, causing waves that, still, to that day brushed against them._

 

_“I’ve… become fond of this place,” Oswald finally admitted._

 

_Jim sharply turned to look at him, with disbelief and doubt written all across his face._

 

_“You’ve become fond of the place where you were almost shot and dumped in the river?”_

 

_Oswald’s blushed, “A crisis averted-”_

 

_“I shoved you in the river, Oswald.”_

 

_“Well, yes, I did end up in the water, but still very much alive.” Oswald paused, adding, “Thanks to you.”_

 

_Jim shifted uncomfortably, but didn’t say anything._

 

_“I was given a second chance here,” Oswald said firmly. Jim could scoff all he wished, but this place was a part of him now. “That’s not something I make light of. I come here to clear my head, to remind me of that day.”_

 

_Oswald knew there was more to it than it being merely out of gratitude for being able to draw air in his lungs. He couldn’t very well confess that every time he was lonely, yearning the touch of a man that certainly didn’t return his affection, he wound up here at the pier. He swore he could still feel Jim’s touch on him from that day. He didn’t mention that._

 

_“Being so close to death helps me think. Forces me to remind myself of where I could end up again if I’m not careful.”_

 

_Disbelief melted from Jim’s expression, and something else took its place. An emotion Oswald couldn’t quite read. It resembled something like understanding._

 

_“Try not to piss off anyone else and get yourself thrown in the river again.” Jim’s mouth quirked upward. “I can’t be here every time to rescue you.”_

 

_“Not at the lack of trying, though,” Oswald stated boldly, he knew it had nothing to do with him. Jim was not his personal prince, but he knew deep down, Jim was a hero. He was trying to save everyone in this town._

 

_“I’ll do my best as long as you try to keep your nose clean.”_

 

_Oswald knew it was a stretch to promise that, that he wouldn’t cause trouble in the future, but he grinned anyway, mischievous as ever as he sticked out his hand. “Deal.”_

 

Jim knew where to find Oswald today because he remembered their conversation back on the pier. His face looks similar: it’s the same expression he wore that day at the pier after Oswald explained why he kept returning. Jim knew Oswald would venture back to the spot Jim had found him after the shooting.

 

Jim remembered.

 

He’s unable to look away from Jim, staring up at him, wordlessly, as Jim continues to work on patching him up. Oswald knows Jim can feel the weight of his gaze.

 

Jim ignores it, but he confirms Oswald’s suspicions. “I thought you said you were going to try not to piss anyone else off.”

 

“Well, I wasn’t successful.”

 

“I noticed,”Jim answers, deadpan.

 

Oswald snorts, an unflattering noise, but it’s genuine. The only kind of emotions Jim seems to draw out of Oswald. It causes Jim to meet his gaze for a second, a small smile playing on his lips, almost pleased at being the reason for Oswald’s laughing before focusing once more on the bandage.

 

“You kept your promise... You found me,” Oswald whispers so softly that for a second he’s afraid Jim didn’t hear him.

 

Jim’s reaction proves otherwise. His hands still, hovering over Oswald’s rib cage.

 

A lifetime seems to pass before Jim speaks again, “Yeah… I did. When I heard you went missing… I searched for you.”

 

“Why?” Oswald breathes, his chest rising and falling as he exhales. He waits for Jim’s answer. It feels like he’s floating, as if Oswald is once again wading in the waters.

 

Oswald watches the muscles in Jim’s throat move, tendons dancing as he swallows. It appears he’s become suddenly nervous, anxious, his fingers twitching against Oswald waist, right below the freshly new bandage Jim has placed.

 

Something dangerous happens next. _Hope_. It floods him, filling every inch of his body at Jim’s hesitation, and Oswald’s curiosity is renewed. Oswald waits as Jim gathers courage. Jim’s behavior leaves an impression of a confession about to be uttered for the first time.

 

But it doesn’t come.

 

It stings. It’s almost as if someone is yanking him out of the dark waters, leaving him gasping for air, struggling for breath. The realization hits Oswald with full force, the reasoning behind Jim’s actions. Jim was just doing his job. His duty. Nothing more. Once again, Oswald has misplaced his feelings, projected them onto Jim unwantedly.

 

He’s too scared that he might be wrong.

 

Oswald swallows, bile creeping up his throat. “It’s a good thing Gotham has a police officer in the GCPD so diligent, otherwise nothing would get solved.”

 

Jim’s hands fall away as Oswald stands.

 

“Oswald.”

 

It’s the perturbed expression that Jim wears that makes Oswald avert his stare. It’s difficult to look, because his tone leaves little to imagination. He knows if he glances upward, he’ll find that little wrinkle between Jim’s brows and a frown at Oswald’s actions.

 

Behavior of someone who cares. Something that terrifies Oswald.   


Oswald waves it off, hands shaking as they move to button up his shirt. “I’ve taken more than enough of your time, detective. I should be on my way.”

 

His attempt at the buttons fails, his hands trembling far too much, and Jim takes pity on him, covering his hands with his own, forcing Oswald to still.

 

 _“_ Oswald, _listen to me.”_

Jim’s hands are warm, just like Oswald remembers. A stark contrast against his own pale, icy ones. Jim lets go of his hands, his index finger and thumb capturing Oswald’s chin, giving Oswald no other option but to meet his direct stare.

 

“It wasn’t civic duty that made me search for you.”

 

There’s something hidden in his statement, Oswald knows by the way Jim is looking at him, like he’s supposed to discover the meaning of Jim’s words.

 

“Jim, I don’t understand what you mean.” Oswald swallows, lies, and it feels as if he has been submerged once again in the waters. All the threads between them reattaching, becoming once more solid.

 

“I know you do, Oswald.” He drops his hands away from Oswald’s chin, only to grab each side of his shirt, tugging Oswald to him.

 

Drowsiness clings to Oswald, his head rolling back, baring his throat. Jim is quick, descends on the opportunity spotted, not wasting a second as he starts mouthing at his neck, finding a particular area that causes Oswald to curl his toes in pleasure.

 

With every kiss, an exchange is happening, unspoken _I love yous_ transporting from Jim’s tongue, sinking into the flesh of Oswald’s throat. His mouth travels, brushing along the vein, down Oswald’s neck before Jim pushes the article of clothing, the obstacle, off of Oswald’s shoulder, kissing his bare clavicle.

 

“ _Jim_.” Oswald’s voice sounds wrecked.

 

The detective pulls away, steel blue eyes staring at Oswald. Oswald feels like he could drown in them. Jim looks at Oswald with devotion, like he’s willing to dive deep into a thousand waters to save Oswald.

 

It’s too much.

 

Oswald’s fingertips reach up, tracing Jim’s jaw. Jim shudders under his touch, but it’s not due to repulsion, because it’s followed by a shaky breath being released, eyes sliding shut.

 

Oswald wonders if it has been a while since someone has touched Jim like this too.

 

Heat from Jim’s hands drags over his waist, settling on his lower back, the dip of his spine, as Jim pulls Oswald closer.Their bodies sliding in place, pressing against one another perfectly as Jim’s cool breath caresses over Oswald’s lips.

 

Oswald wants to lean in, to capture Jim’s lips, whisper his affections, but the words stop halfway up his throat. His wound starts to ache, burning, reminding him of the last time he uttered ‘I love you’ to someone and how he ended up with a bullet to the gut.

 

A cold sweat breaks across his forehead. Fever spreading beneath his skin. He could easily allow Jim to direct him towards his bedroom, to fall backwards onto the sheets, for Jim to strip him bare, until there’s nothing between them, no secrets or reservations, just them wrapped up together, blurring into one.

 

Feelings of desire are strong ones, almost making Oswald dizzy with it. Oswald wants Jim, wants to open up for Jim, let him crawl between his legs to get a taste, to feel his breath against his skin, for Jim to swallow him whole. He craves to hear Jim murmur ‘love you’ distractedly while fingertips brush over him, curling until Oswald’s legs are trembling and moans are falling fast from his mouth, his body arching, overwhelmed with pleasure.Them becoming waves, rocking against one another.

 

Every fiber of Oswald’s being cries out when he pushes Jim away. It feels like a mistake, as if he’s going backwards. It’s devastating, Jim’s expression falling as he does so.

 

“I love you.”

 

The admission finally vocalized between them and both are shocked into silence, but Jim appears defiant, as if he dares Oswald to question it. Oswald’s never witnessed Jim like this, this vulnerable before him.

 

Jim continues, his whispers washing over Oswald, “I always have.”

 

Oswald stumbles back, struggling to stay afloat, afraid of getting lost in the oceans that lie within Jim’s eyes. Yet his feet remain, bare against the wood. He doesn’t leave just yet, not strong enough to break Jim’s stare.

 

“Jim-” Oswald tries.

 

The detective steps forward, driving the air out of Oswald’s lungs, leaving him breathless as Jim closes the distance between them once more. “And I _think_ you love me too.”

 

Oswald’s eyelids flutter shut, swallowing, when Jim cups his face, the pad of his thumb following an invisible path across his cheekbone.

 

“Tell me I’m wrong.”

 

It’s cruel. Jim knows Oswald can’t, he _knows_ it’s the absolute truth. Trepidation plagues him, crouched over his spine, it claws deep within him. His mind is torn between memories of the dock  and the brand new start, this sudden opportunity to be with the man Oswald’s positive he’s been in love with since he laid eyes on him in that alleyway.

 

“Tell me you love me, Oswald.”

 

His heart lurches upwards, beating erratic, fast in his throat. Word fail him. His tongue incapable of moving to form the syllables past his lips. They’re stuck. Oswald wants to oblige to Jim’s request, wants the words to pour out of him repeatedly, to trace them onto Jim’s skin, until they’re imprinted deep into the subcutaneous layer.

 

History has unexpectedly repeated itself. Oswald is naturally quick with words, however, being alone with Jim seems to neutralize his ability.

 

_“Cobblepot! What the hell are you doing here?”_

 

_Oswald could always tell what mood the detective was in. He had cracked the secret. He noticed a trend, Jim’s moods varying depending on how Jim addressed Oswald. His mobster nickname was something rare, common whenever there were people about, but alone, like now, it was either an angry or displeased shout of his last name, or something even rarer than his mobster’s name being uttered, Jim gently calling him Oswald._

 

_He preferred the latter, liked the way his name rolled off on Jim’s tongue. He immensely enjoyed hearing his first name escaping Jim’s mouth, especially if it was spoken with a soft tone._

 

_“Meeting a potential new business partner,” Oswald answered honestly ‒ lying to the detective never felt right._

 

_His honesty seemed to have the opposite effect of what he intended, that wrinkle of Jim’s formed right between his eyebrows. Oswald forced himself not to lean up on his tiptoes to kiss it away._

 

_“You get invited to meet up with a stranger at some abandoned warehouse and you actually show up. I thought you were smarter than that, Cobblepot.”_

 

_Oswald tried not to be offended by Jim’s words, more amused than anything else, a little flattered too. Clearly some part of Jim thought Oswald intelligent; he filed this fact away for further review._

 

_“Sorry to disappoint, detective. Someone had reserved the top secret criminal clubhouse, so I had to make do.”_

 

_Oswald noticed the twitch of Jim’s lips, either from amusement or annoyance. Hard to tell with Jim._

 

_“Why are you here, detective? Unless… you’re my mysterious caller.” Oswald’s tone turned suggestive, “Why, Jim, if you wanted my attention so badly, all you had to do was call.”_

 

_It was something rare to see the detective flustered, but Oswald succeeded, watching the deep blush working itself up Jim’s face._

 

_“We got a call about a bomb threat in the area,” Jim replied stiffly. Oswald could see the tension lining his shoulders by the way he stood, straight rigid posture, reminding Oswald of his military past._

 

_Oswald watched as Jim examined the inside of the building, eyes straying so often to glance back at Oswald before continuing his survey._

 

_“Have you seen anything suspicious?”_

 

_“Define suspicious. We’re standing in a run-down warehouse, everything in here looks dubious.” Oswald wasn’t lying about the state of the warehouse. The floors were littered with bottles and trash from trespassers. The walls covered in sloppy and unimpressive graffiti._

 

_“It’s not safe here regardless.” Jim’s fingers once again curled around Oswald’s upper arm, a more and more frequent gesture from the detective. Oswald couldn’t complain as Jim started to drag him along, didn’t want to with Jim so close and touching him._

 

_Right before they reached the doorway of the warehouse, they both heard a series of clicks, pausing to look at one another._

 

_“Go!” Jim shouted, palm flat against Oswald’s back, between his shoulder blades as he shoved Oswald out the door._

 

 _But it was too late, they couldn’t outrun an explosion. They had a few seconds before a quick whooshing noise filled their ears, a flick of a match and the whole place lit up in flames. The impact of the explosion had them hurling in the air._   
  
_Oswald hit the gravel hard, bones cracking under the force. Sharp, unforgiving pain flared up throughout his entire body, but it was his leg that hurt the most. The familiar ache he had grown accustomed to had been replaced with something much more fierce, that made Oswald’s eyes sting with tears at such agony radiating from his kneecap down the bones in his leg. Ears ringing as he tried to gather his senses. He couldn’t make out anything, unable to hear a single thing. But despite the sudden loss of hearing, somehow, everything still seemed so loud. Oswald squeezed his eyes shut, gritting his teeth together._   
  
_“-wald.”_   
  
_When Oswald opened his eyes, Jim’s face lined his vision, hovering above him, one hand cupping his jaw. Bits of gravel had embedded themselves into his cheek, and blood was running down from a cut next to his eye. Oswald soon noticed his mouth had been moving. It took a while for him to understand what Jim was asking._   
  
_“Oswald! Are you alright?!”_   
  
_The gangster gave him a small nod, not wanting to move too much. “You’re bleeding,” Oswald  pointed out dazedly, reaching up to touch his cheek, wanting to wipe the blood away._   
_  
“So are you,” Jim responded, not shrugging away his touch, but looking more concerned at Oswald’s actions._

 

_The hand that cradled Oswald’s jaw lifted, moving to cover Oswald’s hand on Jim’s face. “We need to move, the building is seconds away from collapsing. Can you walk?”_

 

_“I don’t think so.” Oswald shooked his head._

 

_He watched as the detective’s eyes flickered back and forth in thought, trying to figure out their next move._

 

_“Alright, this is gonna hurt. A lot. Wrap your arms around my neck.”_

 

_“What?”_

 

_“Oswald, we don’t have much time, and we need to get as far away from here as we can. Do you trust me?”_

 

_Oswald did as Jim requested, wrapping his arms around the detective’s neck. Jim grunted as he lifted the small gangster, and Jim had been right about it hurting. The movement jarred his leg, sending excruciating pain up it._

 

_Oswald bit down on his lower lip until he drew blood, until he could feel it trickling down, refusing to let the cry escape his mouth._

 

_“I got you,” Jim’s voice soothed._

 

_He buried his face along Jim’s shoulder, hiding the tears welling up in the corners of his eyes. Oswald could smell the detective’s cologne mixed with the smoke from the explosion. His nose brushed against Jim’s neck as he relaxed in the detective’s grip, resting his cheek against Jim’s shoulder._

 

_As soon as they were far enough, away from any potential danger, Jim carefully placed Oswald on the hood of his car. The sounds of the warehouse collapsing onto itself and the crackling of the flames caught Oswald’s attention. The explosion had been a large one; all that remained of the structure was reduced to nothing but ashes and charcoal. Oswald blinked a few times, trying to see past the dark smoke billowing towards the sky._

 

_“I need to take a look at your leg,” Jim said, hands hovering above Oswald’s shin. “Do you have a knife?”_

 

_Oswald nodded tiredly, his arms were weak, he was barely able to lift them as he fumbled to retrieve the pocketknife he kept in his trousers. Carefully, Jim slipped the blade of the knife next to the seam of Oswald’s pants, slowly cutting up the side, revealing the pale skin beneath ‒ the touches of blood stood out even more against the white flesh._

 

_When the knife stopped a bit above Oswald’s knee, right before Jim was ready to push the fabric out of the way, Oswald managed to find enough strength to grip Jim’s wrist, stopping him. He didn’t want Jim to fully see his mangled leg._

 

_Jim glanced up at Oswald, wearing a carefully guarded expression._

 

_“My leg…” Oswald tried to explain. “Just forewarning you, detective, it’s not a pretty sight.”_

 

_Jim’s eyes fell back down at the twisted leg, not saying a single word as he slipped his fingers to cup Oswald’s calf. A gentle touch as his fingertips trailed up his legs, seeking for something Oswald had forgotten the moment Jim laid his hands on him._

 

_“Nothing more than cuts and scratches, probably an exacerbation of your old injury, but I don’t think you broke any new bones,” Jim stated calmly, but his expression was oddly blank as he finished his review of Oswald’s leg._

 

_Jim didn’t remove his hands after he was done, instead he let them linger, thumbs pressing a bit  firmer in a circular motion, massaging the muscles beneath. A little gasp fell from Oswald’s mouth, as Jim continued rubbing his leg._

 

_“Your leg…” Jim started, hand pausing over his kneecap. “It’s a part of you now. You shouldn’t be ashamed of it.”_

 

_Oswald stared wordlessly up at Jim. They both reeked of fire, smoke curling around the both of them, intertwining their scents. Both were covered in soot and blood._

 

_He sent a tiny smile towards the detective, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly. Jim’s eyes lowered to his lips before searching Oswald’s face. Jim’s hand settled once more on Oswald’s jaw, his thumb wiping at the soot clinging to his cheek._

_With Jim’s weighty gaze, the words he has been wanting to say almost slipped out, “Jim…I-”_

 

_Oswald’s voice broke Jim’s reverie. He cleared his throat, hand dropping back down to his sides as he stepped backwards, away from Oswald and suddenly, Oswald’s chest hurt a lot more than his leg did._

 

_Jim raised his eyebrows expectantly, waiting for Oswald to finish his sentence._

 

_“Nevermind.” Oswald smiled bitterly, knowing the moment had passed. He blamed the probability of having smacked his head a bit too hard and leaving himself concussed for the almost slip._

 

Just like before, the admission is held firmly in place along his throat, trapped in a web of his own hesitance. This time, Oswald can’t blame being afraid of the repercussion of admitting his feelings towards the detective. He knows exactly where Jim stands, the detective communicating for the first time, with an openness that has never been there in their past encounters.

 

It’s irrational. Oswald shouldn’t be fighting this, he should be pressing kisses against Jim’s mouth, not creating more spaces between. Not now. Jim was holding out his hand to take, to dive into these new uncharted waters, together.

 

But the descent is one Oswald is familiar with, usually accompanied with brute force. He’s been shoved into Gotham’s waters one too many times, commonly without a choice in the matter.  

 

This time he wouldn’t be alone, Jim would be right there with him, but Oswald’s afraid that as soon as his body hits the surface, blood will begin to ooze from him, darkening the waters and suddenly, Jim’s gone and he’s alone again, breathing his final breaths.

 

Oswald couldn’t forget the memories at the dock. The strong smell of gunpowder fills his nostrils, his stomach being ripped apart all over again, the searing heat tearing through him. He remembers, remembers the fall into the waters, struggling to swim, but the fresh betrayal still stung, the gunshot draining him. His brain rushing to comprehend, to make sense of what was happening. His body was going into shock, growing cold and he felt sick, the harsh current only adding more to his nausea. He began to sink, and it wasn’t long before he was gasping for air, only water pouring inside instead.

 

 _“Ed, I love you.”_ The words had came easy then, but Oswald knew now, there wasn’t any truth behind them, more self-preservation, an act of survival. It didn’t work.

 

_And with a twitch of a finger, the gun went off._

 

Oswald could hear the echoing of the gunshot ringing in his ears. The roles had been reversed, he had been the one begging Ed to tell him that he had loved Oswald. The words should flow out effortlessly, but Oswald’s scared that as soon as the confession leaves his lips, it will become real and Jim will realize he was making a mistake. Oswald couldn’t risk it.

 

He stumbles backward, away from Jim, not missing the hurt flashing in the detective’s eyes.

 

“Oswald…” The gangster watches as Jim reaches out for him, fingers seeking to curl around Oswald’s wrist, to pull him closer and kiss away any worries.

 

“I-I’m sorry, Jim.” Oswald swallows, his throat aches. His voice is hoarse as he continues, “I can’t.”

 

He doesn’t look back when Jim calls his name again. Oswald’s torn as he leaves, wanting to turn back and melt in Jim’s embrace.The door loudly shuts behind him, making his heart thump painfully, and even though he knows it’s for the best, it feels as if he’s made the biggest mistake of his life, closing the door on this chance to be with Jim. Pain flares in his abdomen, almost as if someone had shot him again.

 

Only Oswald had pulled the trigger himself this time.

 

The next few days are a struggle for Oswald, trying to keep thoughts of the detective at bay, to construct a barrier blocking memories of the heat of Jim’s hands, his burning gaze, hushed declarations entwining around them both. Ocean waves crash against the glass, cracking the surface of the barricade, letting the water seep through and flood Oswald’s brain.

 

Humidity is thick in the air, the water undulating uneasily, restless, as if a storm’s brewing on the horizon. The sun is setting when Oswald reaches the shore, touches of reds and oranges with swirls of pinks burst across the skyline, casting a glow against the ocean.

 

He returns to the site where Jim saved him once more, despite his intentions, Oswald swore to himself that this would be his last time. Oswald had made his decision, he refused Jim. Regret had become a friend, accompanying him these last few months, and declining Jim proved to be Oswald’s biggest regret. Even so, Oswald knew he couldn’t keep soaking in reminiscences any longer. That this had to be the final sailing. Oswald built a boat, ready to push it out onto the sea, to surround himself once more in his memories of Jim one last time. He is prepared to dip into the waters, and when he returns to shore, he’ll come out anew, a different man.

 

It’s a bittersweet. Oswald sits on the shore, watching the rippling waves, hands behind him as he leans back, sinking into the sand. He is preparing to say goodbye to something unformed, something that never had the chance to blossom. It is gone now, no longer a feasible reality. Oswald’s convinced Jim wants nothing to do with him now.

 

Oswald doesn’t hear the footsteps approaching, not over the sounds of strong winds and the ocean roaring in his ears.

 

“Thought I would find you here.”  

 

Oswald’s head swivels upwards, eyes following the crease in the navy trousers before meeting the detective’s warm gaze. There is amusement tinting his tone, an easy smile resting on his lips. For a second, Oswald can’t believe what his eyes are seeing, almost tempted to pinch himself to check if he’s dreaming.

 

“Jim...” Oswald breathes.

 

“Mind if I join you?” Jim asks, pointing at the spot beside Oswald. Oswald is barely able to nod before the detective takes a seat near him, stretching out his feet towards the waters.

 

Oswald swallows, leaning forward, bringing his knees to his chest, resting his elbows on top of them. He can feel the weight of Jim’s stare, dousing him in icy waters, leaving him struggling to regain a steady breath. He looks fixedly straight ahead at the sea, not daring to meet the detective’s eyes.

 

Neither one speaks, silence settling between them like an old friend, the crashing of the waves  hitting the shore being the only noise for miles.

 

“I meant what I said the other day.”  Without any warning, Jim finally speaks, disrupting the quiet, causing Oswald to angle his body towards him to look at him. “That I love you.”

 

“Jim-”

 

But Jim cuts him off, holding up a hand, and Oswald’s gaping mouth closes. “Do you remember Jake Lewis?”

 

“I do.” Oswald frowns, not expecting this sudden turn in conversation.

 

_When Jim had called him late that night, Oswald realized that he had never heard Jim like this before. There was the usual reluctance, but lurking underneath were touches of barely contained desperation slipping through the cracks._

 

_It was late, a few hours past midnight, and if this had been anyone else calling, Oswald would have sent a fresh baked box of cannoli laced with poison to the caller._

 

_Instead, Oswald sat up in bed, silk dressing gown sliding off his shoulder, groggily rubbing his eyes, “Detective, do you realize what time it is?”_

 

_Jim ignored the question, his tone serious, “Oswald, this is urgent. I’m outside your door, I need you to open up.”_

 

_Oswald pulled the phone away from his ear and swiveled his head to stare at the door. No knocks were coming from that direction, but apparently the detective stood right outside. Oswald scrambled, tossing the thick comforter away from him and swinging his legs over the bed._

 

_He couldn’t fathom as to why Jim was here as he slid the chain across and unlocked the door, almost couldn’t believe this was actually happening, but there was Jim as Oswald opened the door._

 

_“Jim, what is going on?”_

 

_Jim brought his finger to his lips, quieting the gangster, “Can’t risk anyone overhearing, that’s why I didn’t knock. Can we come in?”_

 

_Oswald’s mouth dropped open, struggling to keep up, “We-?”_

 

_It was then that a young man stepped into view. He couldn’t have been a day past the age of sixteen. The boy appeared familiar, but he couldn’t quite place where he’d seen him before. Oswald turned back to Jim, raising an eyebrow, waiting for answers, even more confused than before._

 

_“Please, Oswald. I need your help,” Jim admitted, his voice soft, barely above a whisper._

 

_Oswald knew that whatever this was, it must have been highly important to the detective and that Jim was out of options. Jim had no other choice but to go to him. Oswald knew that he wouldn’t be the first person Jim would go to for help. Jim must have been desperate._

 

_Oswald stepped aside, allowing the two men to enter, shutting the door behind them. In the dim lighting of the hallway, he hadn’t noticed the small cuts covering the boy’s face. He winced internally at the tiny nicks, knowing fully well that oftentimes, those were the kind that hurt the worst, the kind of stinging that one couldn’t simply ignore._

 

_He slipped inside his bathroom, grabbing his first aid kit before returning to the living room._

 

_“Who’s the kid?”_

 

_“Jake Lewis,” Jim answered, watching the gangster curiously as he settled in front of the teenager and started to tend to the boy’s injuries. “He runs with Maroni’s crew.”_

 

_Oswald’s hands paused at hearing that, hovering, before he caught himself and continued patching up the boy. He looked at the kid before him; the boy’s eyelids were half closed, his head began to droop._

 

_Once he was finished tending to the wounds, after putting away the kit, Oswald turned back towards Jim, beckoned him to follow him to his bedroom and leave the sleeping boy on the couch to avoid waking him. Oswald had been in his position one too many times, and knew he needed as much rest as he could get._

 

_“What do you need?” Oswald asked, shutting his bedroom door, and he didn’t miss the way Jim looked about the room with some interest before responding to the question._

 

_Jim stepped forward, invading his space, “Jake was recruited to sell drugs for Maroni. Last night, he skimmed some money after one the the deals, trying to make some extra cash to pay for his mother’s medication.”_

 

_Oswald squeezed his eyes shut, attempting to detached himself, to avoid drawing similarities between the kid’s situation and his own start in the criminal underworld._

 

_“How do you know about this? About the kid?”_

 

_“He has been helping me out with a case. He’s a good kid, just got mixed up with the wrong people.”_

 

_“What are you asking from me, Jim?”_

 

_“Jake has been trying to get out, but it won’t be long before Maroni finds out it was him stealing money from him.”_

 

_“And you want me to convince Maroni not to kill him?” Oswald drew his own conclusions._

 

_Jim nodded. “I thought since you’re on friendly terms with Maroni, maybe you could help Jake get out of this business safely.”_

 

_“Don Maroni won’t be forgiving. In his eyes Jake stealing from him is an act of betrayal. Even if I help him get away, I can’t guarantee Maroni won’t come after him sooner or later.”_

 

_“He’s just a young kid. He still has a life ahead of him.”_

 

_“So had I.” The words slipped out before Oswald even realized. He hadn’t intended to bring up his own past. “So had a lot of people in this business,” he quickly added to make the words have less significance._

 

_Jim tongue’s slippery, his time in Gotham starting to show. “Then you can understand just how much Jake needs to escape Maroni.”_

 

_“Do you realize what you’re asking me to do? I’m jeopardizing everything if I help you.”_

_There was only one way Oswald could help the kid, where the teenager didn’t end up dead in a ditch somewhere. It was risky and it could compromise his budding relationship with Maroni and endanger his task to be a spy for Falcone._

 

_Either way, this could end bloody for Oswald._

 

_“Can you help me, yes or no?”_

 

_Oswald sighed at Jim’s bluntness, “There is a way...”_

 

_The look of relief spreading across Jim’s face made it worth the blows he’d face tonight. Shutting his eyes briefly, Oswald took a moment to himself. This was going to be a long and painful night ahead._

 

_“Excuse me, detective. I need to get dressed.”_

 

_After a few hours of facing Maroni’s wrath, Oswald was limping, holding his sides as he climbed up the stairs of his apartment. Each exhale was followed by an ache, pain radiating along his ribs. Oswald could barely see out of his bruised and rapidly swelling eye, each step knocked the air from his lungs._

 

_When Oswald entered his apartment, he hadn’t expected Jim to still be there. “What the hell did you do, Oswald?!”_

 

_Oswald leaned heavily against the closed door, a little wheeze escaping as he responded, “Ensured Jake’s future. You don’t have to worry, detective. Maroni won’t go after him.”_

 

_“Jesus Christ, Oswald! You need a hospital.” Jim stared at him, horrified at the blood steadily seeping from his nose._

 

_Oswald shook his head, tiredly. “I’ve faced much worse than Maroni’s croonies’ fists.”_

 

_Jim gingerly wrapped his arm around the smaller man, helped Oswald towards his bedroom, allowing the gangster to lean all his weight on him._

 

_“What did you do?” Jim repeated his question once he found a bag of frozen peas in the freezer, kneeling down in front of Oswald, holding the bag of vegetables against his face._

 

_Oswald flinched against the cold. “I told Maroni that I was the one to steal from him, that I fired Jake a while back ago without Maroni’s knowledge, so I could sneak money and Jake would’ve been the perfect patsy.”_

 

_He grinned, the cracks in his lips splitting apart,  “Would’ve gotten a bullet to the head, but Maroni respected that I was upfront with him, thought a beating would be enough punishment to remind me of my place.”_

 

_Jim silently stared at Oswald, regarding him with an unreadable expression. The weight of the detective’s gaze caused heat to spread from his neck up to his cheeks._

 

_“Jake’s safe now. You’re a good man, Jim. Not everyone has a Jim Gordon at their disposal, willing to protect them. If they had, the mob wouldn’t have a chance of recruiting anyone.”_

 

_Jim gave him a rare smile. “Not everyone has an Oswald Cobblepot in their corner. Thank you, Oswald.”_

 

“That night I realized that I was in love with you. You didn’t have to help, but you did. You put your own safety before someone you didn’t even know. It made me realize that you’ve always been there for me. Regardless of the consequences, you always tried to help me.”

 

“I needed you to know that, that I’ve always loved you, Oswald. I just didn’t consider us being together could be a possibility, but then... you almost died and I realized that I don’t want to be in a world without you by my side.”

 

Oswald needs it, to reach out and feel Jim under his fingers, to feel the heat of his hands again. His hand slides across from him, disrupting the smooth surface of the sand until it’s resting just inches away from Jim’s hands. Hesitating only for a second, Oswald hooks his pinky finger around Jim’s, slowly testing the waters.

 

Neither one says a word, not yet, instead they let the sounds of the ocean wash over them, watching the sun begin to dip, blurring into the horizon, and all the soft colors the sunset brings, glistening across the waters, leaving as it vanishes from the sky.

 

Right before the sun completely disappears, Oswald turns to look at Jim, drinking the sight of him in, watching the last ray of sunlight touching his face slip lower and lower until it moves down his throat.

 

Jim’s finger absently strokes along the side of Oswald’s, turning his gaze onto the gangster and the dam he’s built can’t withstand any more pressure, it breaks, and any feelings that Oswald has kept buried for Jim pours out of him.

 

“I love you,” Oswald breathes. “I loved you from the very start, Jim Gordon, and never stopped.”

 

Oswald watches as Jim grasps his hand, bringing it to his mouth, letting his lips drag over the bare knuckles as Jim whispers, “I know.” Never once taking his eyes off of Oswald.

 

Splayed fingers rest at his jaw as Jim cups Oswald’s face. Jim stares at him, eyes flitting down to Oswald’s lips before the pad of his thumb strokes along Oswald’s bottom lip. Oswald’s mouth falls open, shakily exhaling before finally, _finally,_ Jim leans forward and Oswald eagerly meets him halfway. Jim’s lips land right on the corner of Oswald’s mouth, briefly kissing him before his lips drag, lightly grazing across Oswald’s, his tongue slipping inside, flickering against Oswald’s own as Jim deepens the kiss.

 

Oswald is too far gone, as if he’s lost in the middle of the ocean, too distracted by how soft Jim’s lips are, to notice Jim pulling him onto his lap. It’s quick, blink of an eye, and suddenly he’s moving, straddling the detective. Oswald’s hands are flat against Jim’s chest, steadying himself.

 

Their eyes meet, both speechless, pupils dilating from the strong arousal running through their veins. Jim holds him close, hands on Oswald’s thighs, before skating upwards, burning right through the material of Oswald’s trousers, stopping once his hands cups Oswald’s hips.

 

It’s a touch of deja vu as the detective’s fingers find their way towards the front of Oswald’s shirt,  quickly undoing each button before pushing the article of clothing off his shoulders.

 

Oswald’s head rolls to the side, baring his throat once more for Jim. Jim’s breath is warm against his flesh. Jim waits, breathing for a moment before placing an open mouth kiss on the side of his throat. Oswald’s fingers clutch at Jim’s shoulders, curling and squeezing at the material of Jim’s shirt. He’s helpless as Jim’s tongue slips out, creating a path upwards from the dip of Oswald’s collarbone, licking a stripe up the side of his neck, until he reaches Oswald’s jawline.

 

The light pressure on Oswald’s hips travels, Jim’s hands gliding around Oswald’s waist before running up his spine. One of Jim’s hands cups the nape of Oswald’s neck, cradling his head while the other arm is kept in place, secure, around Oswald’s waist as he pushes Oswald back into the sand.

 

The moon’s bright and full as it shines down on them among the shoreline, the ocean’s waves brushing up against the top of Oswald’s shoulders before retreating again. The sand gives way under the weight of Oswald’s body.

 

Jim slips in between Oswald’s spread thighs, sliding right into place like he belongs there, hovering above the gangster. His hands lie on each side of Oswald’s head, staring down at him with his usual intensity, only this is lined with something softer, fondness etching in between, his face empty of the usual tension there. His focus is solely on the man beneath him, making Oswald’s breath catch. Jim leans back on his haunches, tugging at the buttons of his own shirt before tossing it behind him, forgotten on the sand.

 

Oswald swallows, eyes following down Jim’s defined torso, not being able to stop himself from sliding his fingers up Jim’s arms, curling them around his biceps as Jim tilts forward, kissing him once more. He pours every ounce of affection he holds for the detective into the kiss, hand cupping the back of Jim’s head.

 

Jim breaks away, panting, before continuing his kisses down Oswald’s chest, stopping when he reaches Oswald’s bandage. His lips hovers right above Oswald’s wound, placing a gentle, light kiss on top of it.

 

His hands stray lower, capturing the button on Oswald’s pants between two fingers. Jim glances up, seeking permission to continue. His expression is unmistakeable, a silent warning that this is a path that cannot be unexplored once taken. Oswald’s never been more certain in his life.

 

“Please… Jim… _Please, I need you_ ,” Oswald begs, desperation coloring his voice.

 

Jim groans, reaching down to kiss the gangster while he unfastens his trousers. Oswald stops himself from trailing after him when Jim pulls away to carefully ease Oswald’s pants down around his injured leg, before completely removing them along with his boxers.

 

“God, you’re beautiful.” He sits back, admiring the view before him. Oswald is bathed in moonlight. His skin appears to be porcelain under it, a stark contrast with the gangster’s midnight hair.

 

Fingertips press lightly into Oswald’s skin, running up his chest before caressing Oswald’s lower lip. Oswald opens his mouth, taking only the tips of Jim’s fingers, sucking lightly on them, watching Jim’s pupils dilate even further. Jim’s spellbound by the sight of Oswald, his digits disappearing inside Oswald’s mouth.

 

“Oswald _, fuck.._.”

 

Oswald’s eyes flutter shut, moaning around Jim’s fingers, as Jim’s other hand wraps around the base of Oswald’s hardening cock. Jim drags his hand from the tip to the base in an achingly slow manner, experimental, a couple of strokes and Jim lets go, much too soon for Oswald’s taste.

 

“Wrap your arms around my neck.”

 

Oswald moves forward as Jim ducks down, feels almost drunk as he curls his arms around Jim’s neck and immediately, Jim’s strong arms are lifting him as he leans back to sit up with Oswald in his lap. “Oh...”

 

His pulse races as Jim’s hand returns to Oswald’s cock, stroking him faster than before, “Oh, _fuck_.” The expletive slips from Oswald’s lips as Jim tightens his grip.

 

“Jim… Jim _… Oh God… Jim_ ,” Oswald repeats helplessly, gaze locked onto Jim’s as his hips buck upwards. Jim’s hand is slick, every so often his thumb swiping over the head of Oswald’s cock, smearing precome down his length.

 

Oswald’s head rolls backward as the hand on his cock slows considerably before quickening once more. Oswald’s desperate, trying to match the pace of Jim’s hand, shakily fucking into Jim’s fist.

 

The humidity’s thick, leaving a layer of sweat clinging to both men. Jim’s head lowers, placing sweet kisses at the base of Oswald’s throat. Oswald’s left gasping as Jim’s lips drag across his skin, digging his fingertips into the flesh of Jim’s shoulders, trying not to float away.

 

A crescendo builds under his skin and Jim plays him like an orchestra. Oswald’s trapped, hearing the crashing of the waves behind him and the sounds of Jim’s hand moving, stroking him faster.

 

Oswald stills, his back arching as he comes, spilling over Jim’s fingers. He takes Jim’s hand, sucking on his fingers once more, tasting himself on Jim’s hand and Jim moans, hastily unzips himself and with a few tugs, he’s coming too.

 

Oswald collapses against Jim, boneless, as if all his energy has been drained from him. Jim runs his hands up and down Oswald’s spine, comfortingly, while Oswald rests his forehead against Jim’s shoulder, panting. Jim leaves a kiss on the side of Oswald’s neck as their heavy breathing blends together, slowly turning lighter.

 

“Love you,” Jim drowsily murmurs into Oswald’s skin as they both fall backwards, landing on the soft sand. Jim pulls Oswald close, one arm tossed over his waist and his chest pressing against his back.

 

When dawn breaks, it shatters, scattering sunlight across the gentle rolling waves. Oswald feels warm, trapped in Jim’s embrace, his body emitting heat, along with the sun’s warmth caressing their bare flesh.

 

Oswald can tell Jim’s awake, his steady deep breaths turning quieter, lighter, and the fingers curl around his hip, move, light presses of fingertips sliding upward until they rest, tapping a consistent rhythm, along his ribs.

 

“Good morning,” Jim murmurs, his breath cool against Oswald’s skin as he plants kisses along the nape of Oswald’s neck.

 

Oswald feels a smile tugging at his lips as he rolls over to face the detective. He laughs as he reaches up to brush the sand clinging to Jim’s cheek. His lungs cave and his ability to draw a full breath dwindles as Oswald observes Jim in the morning light. Strands of blond hair are strewn across Jim’s forehead and the sunlight touches Jim, making his crystal blue eyes sparkle as he stares back at Oswald.

 

“I love you.” Oswald places his palm flat against Jim’s solid chest, feeling the heart underneath beating. There’s no hesitation when the words slip out. No lingering fear at the confession being heard.

 

The corner of Jim’s lips lift before he’s leaning forward, capturing Oswald’s mouth in a languid kiss. Oswald could taste the sea air on his tongue and he’s drowning until he feels Jim’s touch, his hand covering the one on Jim’s chest, intertwining his fingers with Oswald’s.

 

“Come swim with me,” Jim whispers after he pulls away.

 

Oswald’s cheeks burn as he suddenly remembers his current state of dress. A fog of arousal and lust clouded his judgment and any worries about being caught, completely undressed and in the arms of another man, haven’t crossed his mind. But in the morning light, he’s exposed, all his sharp and jagged bones laid bare, his twisted leg, all his blemishes unmasked in the sunlight.

 

He hides his face in the crook of Jim’s neck, blushing, “Jim, I-I’m not decent.”

 

Oswald can feel Jim’s chest rumbling as he chuckles, his hands warm as he slides them along Oswald’s spine, tracing each vertebra with his fingertips.

 

“It’s just us here,” Jim promises, helping Oswald to his feet, bringing him closer and kissing his forehead before moving away to shed his remaining clothes. Oswald’s breath quickens, watching the detective, the muscles along his back rippling as he disrobes completely. Jim turns at the waist, smiling back at Oswald and holding out his hand.

 

Oswald steps forward, feeling buoyant, as he grasps the hand extended towards him and Jim leads him to the sea, their bodies creating ripples as they slip into the water.

 

Underneath the surface, the thread between them, tying them together, remains, strong and untouched by the strength of the current as they move further into the sea. Jim pulls Oswald closer once more, the two standing in their ocean.

 

Here in Gotham’s waters, they have found each other once more.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from John F. Kennedy quote: "We are tied to the ocean. And when we go back to the sea, whether it is to sail or to watch - we are going back from whence we came."


End file.
